“Tell the other feller to come back,” said the farmer. “I seen him.”
“You mean you saw me,” murmured Chub, stepping into sight behind Roy.
“What’s that?” asked the farmer, suspiciously.
“How do you do?” asked Chub, affably.
“You’ll see how I do and what I do,” was the grim reply. “What you doing in my house?”
“We—we were just getting out,” answered Roy, with a sickly smile which was intended to be propitiating.
“With your pockets full, I guess. You stay where you are, understand?” He brought the shot-gun up and laid it over his arm in a suggestive way that made Roy wish his legs were inside the window rather than out.
“If you mean that we’ve been stealing anything,” said Chub tartly, “you’re making a mistake. We came up here to buy some milk and your fool dog ran at us and drove us into the house. And here we are. If you’ll take him out of the way we’ll get out.”
“Guess you will,” chuckled the farmer. “Guess you’d be pretty glad to. But you won’t, understand? You get on back into that room.” This to Roy in a threatening growl that fairly lifted the boy’s legs over the sill and deposited them on the parlor carpet. “And you stay there till I come, understand? Watch ’em, Carlo!”
Carlo growled and looked longingly at the boys. The farmer tucked the shot-gun under his arm and disappeared around the corner of the house. Roy and Chub looked at each other in comical dismay.